Hero's Blood
by Dante de Troy
Summary: Heroism is in the blood. The tale of another knight of Gotham. (COMPLETE)
1. Introduction

Introduction  
  
September 3, 2002  
  
This story has been floating around in my mind for some time. For some reason, my young mind seems to fixate on the early 20th century, a time of tumult and turmoil. A time when the lines between good and evil were, in reality, as clear as they are made to be in the comics that I have made such a large part of my life.  
  
This story focuses on a character that is probably one of the most influential men in comic-dom, though indirectly. Before I tell you whom, though, I'll ask a couple of pointed questions.  
  
What made Batman the man he is today? Superb athleticism does not spring from the ether because of childhood trauma, it is in the genes. Who, then, were these people who contributed to the stew that is Bruce Wayne? What kinds of people were the Waynes?  
  
This first story will deal almost exclusively with Thomas Wayne, the father of the Bat. In a silver-age Batman tale, Batman discovers that he shares more with his father than he ever thought. In watching an old film, he discovers that Thomas Wayne once attended a costume party as a Bat-Man. I believe that this was an attempt to trot out the original bat-suit for show and get Bruce into it when his suit is destroyed, but it made me wonder. Did that part of Bruce Wayne that drives him to protect come from his father? Did Thomas Wayne have it in him to strike out into the night in search of justice? What if?  
  
I've borrowed quite a bit from Batman: Year One and Batman: The Long Halloween, both of which feature the Gotham mob during the rise of Batman. That being the case, I want to thank Jeff Millar for his creations of the Falcone family, his fleshing out of the Moronis and giving such a rich contribution to the world that is Gotham City.  
  
So, without further ado, here is the first chapter of what I hope will become the first in a series on pre-Batman Gotham, Hero's Blood.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Joshua "Dante" Epstein 


	2. Chapter 1

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter One  
  
(Author's notes: This story assumes that Batman is roughly 55 years old at the time of publication, setting his birth around 1947. Just some frame of reference information, enjoy!)  
  
  
  
For over two hundred years, the name Wayne had sat proudly atop the low hills outside Gotham City. Mounted firmly on gates of iron, the scrolling letters had withstood the test of time, endured the hardships of war, and watched the growth of what had once been a sleepy hamlet into the sprawling urban mass that was Gotham City. From their castle on the hills, the Wayne family had always been modern knights of a sort, guardians of Gotham throughout its existence. The manor had been Gotham's first hotel, founded by a Wayne, a Wayne had been Gotham's first elected judge, and a Wayne had signed the city's charter. Centuries of tradition dictated that a Wayne had a responsibility to the people of Gotham City, that he was bound to protect them. Thomas Wayne had been reminded of this fact every day of his life, for as long as he could remember. You have a duty, son, his father had said. You have a calling to be a rock for this city.  
  
"And what a city to be duty-bound to." Thomas murmered.  
  
Gotham was a beautiful city, but it was a dark beauty. Where cities like Metropolis or New York gleamed in the day and sparkled at night, Gotham always seemed as if it were on the edge of collapse, even during the brightest light of day.  
  
Thomas Wayne was a young man, just twenty-three years of age, but he felt as if he were twice that. The city in the distance seemed as a weight to him, something that tethered him to this place. When he had gone abroad he could feel it tugging at him, pulling him back from wherever he ventured. He'd discovered in the years since his aging father (who had sired him late in life) had left the Wayne fortunes to him that, no matter where he traveled, be it Rome, Paris, or London, something always drew him back to Gotham.  
  
"Master Thomas?"  
  
Thomas turned around and let a small smile cross his lips when his eyes fell on the thin frame of Winifred Pennyworth. Rail-thin and bespectacled, the doting old man had been a fixture at Wayne Manor for as long as Thomas could remember, always ready with a cup of tea or a word of wisdom. With both his parents lost to the hazards of life, Winifred had ever been the voice of fatherly wisdom to Thomas.  
  
"Yes, Winifred?"  
  
"You look troubled, sir. If I might inquire as to the cause?"  
  
"I don't know, Winifred. Sadness? I see what's happening out there and it saddens me. So much pain. suffering. evil."  
  
The butler puttered about the room a bit, though it was never anything but impeccably clean.  
  
"Evil, sir?"  
  
"Don't listen to the wireless much, do you?"  
  
Thomas heard a disdainful sniff from where the butler was standing. Always a proponent of things old-fashioned, Winifred had all but openly refused to listen to the wireless radio that Thomas had purchased some years before.  
  
"I'll stay true to my morning paper, thank you, sir."  
  
"Even your paper should know what's going on out there. It's war."  
  
There was a moment of silence. Memories of veterans crippled and mangled by the war machines of imperial Germany were fresh in the minds of both men. Winifred had brought his wife to America for a time when the war had broken out, and Thomas had served a year as a volunteer medic after college. The reference was a stark reminder of the violence that they both knew to be one of the ugly realities of life.  
  
"I was under the impression that the war had ended, sir." The old man murmured.  
  
Thomas shook his head sadly.  
  
"Not here. Here it's just beginning."  
  
Moonlight cast a dim glow on the woods between the manor and the city. From a distance, it almost seemed as if nothing were wrong. But to Wayne, things were far from right in Gotham. He could see the newly constructed Falcon Tower, home to the Falcones. They were recent arrivals to Gotham, making their presence known only over the last twenty years or so. They had, however, had a profound impact on the city, and not a positive one. The Falcones were making Gotham into just another gangland like Chicago, growing rich on bootlegging and racketeering. Black sedans threw fear into the hearts of Gotham's citizens, and not a night went by without the rattle of a Tommy gun echoing through the city streets. It grew worse with every day, with every politician that Falcone pocketed, with every cop that decided to supplement his paycheck with a little extra from the Falcone bankroll. Gotham was sinking into oblivion with each sunset.  
  
"You are a young man yet, sir. Perhaps, in time, you may see that things are not quite as bad as they may seem."  
  
"Or they may be worse."  
  
"Perhaps. But what is there to be done?"  
  
"I don't know. But something must."  
  
What indeed, Thomas thought to himself. The people need something. They need hope. They need someone or something to remind them that they are not sheep ripe for the shearing. They need inspiration.  
  
They need a Hero.  
  
Thomas was taken aback for a moment by the intensity of the thought that had found its way into his mind. A Hero. A symbol of strength, a fighter for right.I'm no hero. I'm barely out of medical school. I should still be studying, for god's sake. And here I am thinking of. what? Something out of Scarlet Pimpernel. I'm a fool.  
  
Turning away from the window and Winifred, Thomas gazed into the fireplace and tried to banish these thoughts from his mind. The seed was there, though. Somewhere within Thomas Wayne, something came alive. 


	3. Chapter 2

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Shadows flickered across the walls of Thomas Wayne's study. They cast an eerie light on the large paintings that adorned the walls; paintings of the men and women of the Wayne line. They were all powerful-looking people, men and women alike. Though the images spanned fifteen generations, they all bore features in common. When one looked into the eyes of the men in the family they were struck by the grimness there. Every Wayne man seemed to have an expression of stern resolve on his face, and eyes that bespoke the heavy weight of duty that they felt. Always counterbalancing that look, though, was the look in the eyes of the Wayne women. A wonderfully alive companion always accompanied those men who bore their duty so heavily. Their eyes twinkled with the joy of simply being alive and their faces seemed to drift back and forth between angelic and playfully devilish. Those grim men seemed to have found comfort there, for the only hint of gentleness in their visages appeared to be in the hand that grasped their mate's shoulder.  
  
For young Thomas Wayne, there was no such soft touch, no such comforting closeness. His face was dark and clouded as he scratched away in the thick, leather-bound journal on his broad desk.  
  
July 30th  
  
"I watch as the city rots. Today, as I drove home, I passed a small theater. The doors had obviously been shut for years, the windows boarded, yet, for some reason, there was smoke emerging from a hole in the roof. Curious, I decided to investigate. After prying open one of the doors, I entered to find two small children sitting, huddled about an open fire where the seats had once been.  
  
Until that moment, I had not truly understood the depths to which this city had descended. I had become able to read the news in the morning and, while disgusted, not be terribly shocked at the villainy that occurs daily. I could hear sirens from my office window and ignore them. I could see smoke at night and dismiss it. But to see those two, who couldn't have been a day over seven years of age, sitting there, it made me sick.  
  
I knelt beside the older of the two, the sister, and asked her how they had come to be in that theater.  
  
'We'd nowhere else to go, sir." She'd said. "They missed us when they came for pa, but then we'd nowhere to go."  
  
I asked her what she meant; who had come for her father.  
  
"The Boss's men. Pa worked for the Boss."  
  
"What did your father do?" I asked her.  
  
"Pa's a policeman." The little one murmured, his face a mixture of angelic pride and crushing sadness.  
  
Suddenly I began to have an inkling of what had happened to these children. The more I grew to understand, the greater the fury boiling within me became.  
  
"Why did these men come for your Pa?"  
  
"They said it was 'cause he didn't make things work. He owed 'em favors, they said."  
  
I found out that their names were Joan and Johnny Napier. I took them from that theater and delivered them to an orphanage on State Street, where I gave the headmistress a substantial sum to ensure that they were well-taken care of. With some little amount of effort, I discovered that their father had been Detective-Lieutenant Bob Napier, late of the Gotham PD Internal Affairs Division. Apparently he'd failed in his duty to "The Boss" in protecting those officers on the force who were in his pocket. He'd paid the price, and the mob had orphaned his children, then tried to see to it that they rotted on the streets.  
  
This can not be allowed to continue. My attempts to speak with Comissioner Hargrave have been met with polite refusal. The Globe refuses to print my letters. I am left with little recourse. If Gotham's wounds are to be dressed, I must see to them myself."  
  
With a thud, the book slammed shut. Thomas dropped it into a desk drawer and walked out of the study into the garage. Waiting for him in the anteroom were five men, all dressed in black.  
  
"Gentlemen. You know why you are here."  
  
There were soft nods from around the room. These men that he had gathered were of the rarest sort. They were men of means, men of influence, but not enough to change the world in which they lived.  
  
"Tonight we begin. For too long we have sat and watched our city descend into darkness, watched as its people are driven into the abyss. Tonight that ends. For every policeman that they pocket, we will find one who we can sway to good. For every crooked politician that they maneuver into office, we will match them.  
  
This is not without risk. We dare the men who control this city to strike us down. We challenge the authorities to hunt us. With every inch we take, they will hate us more. I do not tell you this to scare you, but to ensure that you know that we may not live to see our city brought back into the light."  
  
There was silence in the room as Thomas turned his back to them for a moment.  
  
"This is not a battle that can be fought with money alone. I came to you men not only because of the potential power you wield, but because this is a task that will require us to be strong in body as well as mind. We are not knights of old, nor are we soldiers. But we are strong men and, together, we can remake Gotham into what we dream it should be."  
  
Turning to them, he held a hunting rifle in his hands. His intent was clear.  
  
"Who stands with me."  
  
Silently, man after man stood from his chair, and with each, Thomas felt his heart swell. It was a beginning. 


	4. Chapter 3

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Gotham City by night was an amazing sight to behold. For all its darkness and barely concealed decay, there rose from the midden jewels, beacons to the rest of the city. The Roma, Gotham's newest hotel, had been almost completely financed by Vincent Falcone. From the penthouse at its peak, he gazed down on the city that he was driving into the ground and raged.  
  
"I want him dead!"  
  
Falcone slammed a hand on the marble railing edging the balcony, causing his men to jump. The mob boss was ordinarily an icily calm man. Ordinarily, though, there wouldn't be any reason for him to lose his temper. No one dared cross Vincent Falcone.  
  
"We don't know who it is, Boss. Our boys say it's never the same bunch twice. They come into town, they bust up a coupla rackets, and then they run back to the woods."  
  
"What are you telling me, Sal? Eh? That I've got some sort of modern day Robin hood on my hands, is that what you're telling me?"  
  
"Sure looks that way boss."  
  
"Then I tell you what Sal, this is what we do. We double every guard on every job. We gun these jokers down and if they bring more, we gun them down, and if I have to burn this city to the ground to do it, by God I will!"  
  
Wayne Manor  
  
The men gathered around the fire were not quite the same men that they had been only weeks before. To many, it had seemed a grand adventure, a merry quest to rid Gotham of the rabble who had taken it over. But the gleeful grins had long since been washed from their noble faces. They sat now as men who had seen war, and had stood their ground. But they had not come away unscathed. Tonight made that perfectly clear.  
  
"How long has he been in there?"  
  
"The answer is the same as it was the last time you asked, Hathaway. Too long."  
  
Walter Donne had been the leader of the band that had gone to raid one of Falcone's many small underground casinos. It had become almost routine. There were so many of them scattered about the seedy part of the city that Falcone was stretched too thin to protect them all. Tonight should have been no different from any of the dozens of other raids, but it had been. Everything had gone to plan until they entered the count room. No less than a dozen armed guards emerged from a back entrance, spraying the room with machine gun fire. Walter had thrown himself into the line of fire, protecting his men, who had dragged him back to the car and hurried him to Wayne's house, taking care not to be followed.  
  
Thomas emerged from the dining room, his face dripping sweat and his shirt spattered with blood. He walked slowly to the bar and poured himself a scotch, then tossed it back in one gulp.  
  
"Thomas?"  
  
"A moment, gentlemen." He raised himself up a bit and turned to Winifred. "Would you bring the car around, Winifred, and bring me a fresh shirt and tie?"  
  
"Of course sir. May I inquire as to where we'll be going?"  
  
"We'll be visiting Darlene Donne."  
  
There was an audible intake of breath around the room, and the men gathered there visibly slumped in their chairs.  
  
"Of course sir."  
  
Winifred walked out and Thomas moved to the front of the room. The men around him were weary, shaken, and a bit frightened.  
  
"When confronted with a problem, you must take decisive action. Walter was committed to this cause. We are trying to save our homes and the homes of our friends from these animals who would see us descend into oblivion. They've shed our blood now, so we will redouble our efforts. We will make them sorry that they ever set foot in our city."  
  
Thomas walked around the room for a moment, stopping in front of the window.  
  
"For tonight, though, we mourn the loss of a friend. Go home to your families. Make love to your wives. Remember what we're fighting for."  
  
The men filed out of the room and Thomas stood staring out the window. He heard the soft, familiar footsteps from behind him.  
  
"Was I wrong, Winifred? Was it a mistake to include them in what should be my fight?"  
  
"They love this city as you do sir. Perhaps not so passionately, but it is their home as well."  
  
"But it is my duty to protect it. It has always been mine."  
  
"That is true. But no man can do this alone. Not even one as driven as you."  
  
"Perhaps." Thomas turned. "Is that my shirt?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Thank you. Keep the car running, I'll be out momentarily."  
  
Thomas removed the bloody shirt and stared at it for a moment. He would have to tell Darlene Donne that her husband would never be coming home again. He would have to look at the serene face of Walter's two year-old Benjamin and know that he had let his father be stolen from him. He should never have let Walter be a part of this. He had a family to think of, a wife and a child who would now be left to go on without him. They would be taken care of, Thomas would see to that in the morning. But Benjamin would grow up without a father and, worse, could never be told how and why his father had died.  
  
He dressed and gathered his hat and coat. Beyond the hills which were home to the Manor, Gotham twinkled in the moonlight. Thomas looked down at it for a moment, then went to the car to take Walter Donne's body home. 


	5. Chapter 4

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter 4  
  
Gotham's dingy light cascaded off the smooth curves of Thomas Wayne's Bentley as it moved through Downtown and into the West Hills district, where the Donne home lay. Thomas was sitting in the front seat with Winifred as their third passenger occupied the back seat. Neither of them spoke, as Wayne was lost in thought.  
  
Who am I to think that I can accomplish this? This isn't some disease I'm facing. This isn't some tumor I can operate on these man aren't my tools. There is a dead man in the rear seat of my car, a man who took a chance with his life that he had no right to take, that I had no right to ask him to take. What has possessed me to think that I, one man, can affect such a profound change in this city?  
  
"We're here sir."  
  
Winifred brought the car to a stop and Thomas retrieved his hat from the dashboard, exiting the Bentley into the clear night sky. Walter Donne's home stretched before him, a friendly home that betrayed its owner's sentimentality. It had about it an elegant simplicity, vastly different from the looming darkness of Wayne Manor. This was a place for children, where they could feel warm and safe in the knowledge that their father would always provide the simple necessities of life, and a little bit of extra love as well. Lining the small, one-story tower that topped the house was a railing, against which Thomas could make out a slim figure watching his approach. Knowing that Walter's children would be asleep, Thomas did not ring the bell, but instead waited quietly until Darlene Donne came to the door.  
  
"Hello Thomas."  
  
"Hello Darlene."  
  
She simply stared at him for a moment, and at the Bentley parked just down the drive, the rock-solid façade that she'd painted on her face only just barely wavering.  
  
"I. I suppose that you should bring him in."  
  
"Darlene."  
  
"Please." Her voice faltered for a moment and she dropped her head a bit. "Please, Thomas. Just bring him in."  
  
Thomas nodded silently and returned to the car, lifting Walter's limp body out by himself, the firm muscles beneath his suit hardly straining.  
  
I am responsible for this man's death. It is the least I can do to carry him the last few steps home.  
  
He followed Darlene into the parlor on the first floor and laid Walter out on the couch.  
  
"He doesn't look that bad, does he Thomas? He just looks like he's sleeping." Darlene's voice broke and she collapsed to her knees as sobs wracked her thin body. A great pain drove into Thomas's chest as he knelt beside her reached a hand to her.  
  
"Darlene, I'm so sorry. I never should have forced him into this."  
  
Thomas's eyes took a moment to focus as his face came back around from the vicious slap that had stung his face.  
  
"How dare you, Thomas Wayne?" Darlene hissed at him. "How dare you? You think for a moment that you had this power over him? You imagine for one instant that my Walter wouldn't have done this if he'd known this would happen?" She came to her feet and Thomas recognized again the fiery woman he'd seen at so many fund-raisers and speaking heatedly with her husband before city council meetings. This was someone with a spirit that couldn't be broken. "You were never why he did this, Thomas. It was never you. It may have been your idea, but Walter has always fought for this city. You just gave him a new way to do it. For you to feel guilt over his death is to rob him of the responsibility he took for those around him. He did this for me, for Molly and Stephen, and for every other child in Gotham who has had to see their parents walk in fear. You did your duty Thomas, as he did his."  
  
Thomas came to his feet as well and stood there, looking down at the resolute face of Darlene Donne with a newfound respect.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Don't thank me Thomas. Don't ever thank me. Just don't give up. Don't make his death mean nothing. You have a duty to my children and I now, as well as your duty to this city. Don't shirk it."  
  
Thomas nodded and walked outside into the cool night air. Winifred stood at the back door of the Bentley, waiting to let him in. As the car drove away, Thomas once again fell deep into thought.  
  
Duty. Always duty.  
  
His father's voice echoed in his head and rang true in his heart. It was his duty to protect people. It had always been his duty. That was where he had gone wrong. It was not for these men to do this work. It was for him. As they passed the graveyard that skirted the West Hills, Thomas was suddenly inspired. He took his journal from the sideseat compartment and wrote.  
  
"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot. It is therein that their weaknesses lay."  
  
He laid the book by his side and contemplated the grotesque statuary that dotted the graveyard.  
  
It is there that I will frighten them. It is in their minds first that I must attack. Fear will be my weapon and justice my cause. I will be the nightmare that shatters their sleep. A ghost of the night. The Gray Ghost.  
  
(author's note: I know that I'm abusing the idea of the Gray Ghost as established in continuity, but don't worry, it will all be okay.) 


	6. Chapter 5

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Thomas sat in front of the window, his back to it, as he scribbled in his journal. He didn't know quite why he felt compelled to write all of his thoughts down, only that it somehow crystallized them in his mind.  
  
"I have sent them home. Perhaps the risk is theirs to take, but it will no longer be one that I ask them to take. I am alone now, with no one to assist me or turn to for aid, but that is as it should be. Gotham is my city, and protecting her is my work alone."  
  
He laid the pen on the desk and closed the journal, running a hand over the thick leather binding. They were all gone. That band of formerly merry men who had thought it would be oh-so-heroic of them to strike out into the night and try to make Gotham a better place. They had been wrong. Walter Donne was dead, and with him that spirit of merriment. So, Thomas had ended it, at least for the others. He had told them that he would not risk their lives any longer, that they should leave well enough alone. He, on the other hand, had no such plans for himself. He had spent months now preparing himself for what he was about to do. Months of exercise, though he had always been fit. Months of training, refining those skills that he had acquired overseas during the war. Months of planning, trying to determine the best way to bring down Vincent Falcone's empire. Weapons were the key. The Falcone family's biggest joke seemed to be their import business. They imported shoes from Italy as their legitimate cover, while their biggest illegal operation was weapons trafficking. That was where to hurt them. He knew that was where he had made his mistake before, in attempting to hurt Falcone by hurting his underlings. That approach assumed that he cared about them. No, the way to hurt a man like Vincent Falcone was to hurt him where he cared, in his pocketbook.  
  
He checked to make sure the Winifred was back in the butler's bungalow before going out to the garage. He loved the old man, and had loved watching his children grow up. It hadn't been that many years, it seemed since Wilfred and Alfred had left to return to England. Wilfred had wanted to stay, but Alfred had always been the willful one of the two, determined to go back and serve his country. Thomas had respected that about the man, and had often thought about him as he watched his aging butler pine for his family.  
  
Thomas climbed behind the wheel of the car that he'd purchased recently, an aging roadster that had seen better days. He'd explained it to Winifred by saying that he wanted to be able to get around without having to worry about being recognized. What he hadn't told him was why. He sped through the forest surrounding the manor and through downtown into the factory district. Not a place that one usually ventured at night, he had decided it was the perfect place from which to operate his new "venture". He had hoped to find something closer to the manor, for ease of access, but he didn't want to burden Winifred with his new secret, and there was little, if anything, that the old man could not find out, if it happened around the manor.  
  
At the very edge of the district was Thomas' destination. The old storage facility for the Maroni Brothers moving company. It was a strange sort of irony, in his opinion. The Maronis were second only to the Falcones in Gotham's emerging crime world. The moving company had been one of their early cover businesses, but had been abandoned for a number of years. It was perfect, however, being located so near the heart of Gotham's underworld.  
  
Thomas pulled the roadster into the garage and closed the door behind him. He had set up his base in the second loading bay, and it was there that he made his change. He had bought the clothes from an elderly tailor who knew better than to ask his identity or any questions about why he wanted such peculiar garments. The slacks were tailored to give him a great deal of extra flexibility, as was the thick pilot's jacket. The cloak had a number of small pockets in it, in which he could conceal anything he might need. There were thick gloves, a fedora hat, and a domino mask that fit snugly over his face. All were a dull, gunmetal gray. He changed from his civilian clothing into this specialized outfit and Thomas Wayne was gone, replaced by the grim visage of the Gray Ghost.  
  
He climbed behind the wheel of The Car, a specialized Ford with a souped-up engine. Wit the turn of a key, the engine roared to life and he sped into the night, his mission had begun.  
  
Vic Crosetti stood alone on the Gotham Dockyard, watching as the tug slowly came closer. Its lights were off, making it difficult to see. The idea was that as long as it was difficult to see, it was difficult for the harbor patrol to find it and confiscate its cargo; a load of German-made machine guns, surplus from the war that had "mysteriously" gone missing from the yard where the French had kept them after the treaty was signed.  
  
Vic let out a puff of smoke from his cigarette, barely paying attention as the tug came closer still, not slowing down. As a result, when the boat crashed into the docks at full speed, Vic was taken completely by surprise. The wood decking beneath his feet jolted and split as the boat plowed toward the shore, only coming to a stop when its hull impacted against one of the support pylons below the dock.  
  
"What the hell?" Vic muttered, looking up toward the wheelhouse of the boat. Crouched atop it was a shadowy figure, barely visible in the dim light of the docks. His cloak waved in the wind as he leapt from the boat to the dock, coming to his feet only inches from Vic. Vic looked up at the masked face looming over him just long enough to hear him say "Tell Falcone he's finished.". Then a gray-gloved fist sent Vic Crosetti into darkness. 


	7. Author's Notes

Hero's Blood  
  
November 25, 2002  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Well, first I'd like to thank everyone who has generously submitted reviews thus far. You'll all be happy to know that I've got another three chapters done, which will be posted on a regular basis, and that's usually how far ahead I stay.  
  
One thing I hope everyone is noticing are the tie-ins to Batman lore. I won't give too many specifics, but one thing I will remind people of. John F. Kennedy's nickname was Jack. That's all I'll say.  
  
Also, this story and where it eventually ends make a lot more sense if you read "The Long Halloween". There are some lines in the flashback scenes that take on a whole other meaning if you take them in the context of this story.  
  
Thanks, and keep the comments coming,  
  
Joshua "Dante" Epstein 


	8. Chapter 6

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter Six  
  
December 1st  
  
"Winter has as last come to Gotham. The cold has driven many from the streets, but there are still those with no place to go. By all appearances, it has driven the Falcones into hiding as well. One would think that these men were bears, not gangsters, by their behavior, but I know as well as any what will happen when the bear wakes. I, above all, must be prepared. It seems, though, that we are to have a respite, however short it may be."  
  
A hard wind blew against the windows of Wayne Manor, snow drifting in thick waves across the hillside. Thomas was at his desk, scribbling away in his journal. A warm fire burned in the fireplace, and Winifred was there, as always, with a cup of tea to warm the lord of the house.  
  
"It is good to see you home this evening sir. I had been *kaff*. pardon me. worrying of late."  
  
For the first time in many months, Thomas took a good look at his lifelong friend. Winifred had been a fixture at the Manor for as long as Tomas could remember. The doting Englishman had been there throughout his childhood, watched as he'd grown into man, and had become so permanent a part of his life that he had become, at times, almost unnoticeable in his constant presence. Now though, looking at his aged form, Thomas became keenly aware that he had grown old. The once stern, mannered posture that had been drilled into a young Thomas Wayne now stooped a bit as he laid the tray to rest on the table near the fire.  
  
Thomas laid down his pen and sighed as he contemplated his elderly companion.  
  
"When did it happen, old friend?"  
  
"When did what happen, sir?"  
  
"When did I stop being a boy?"  
  
"We all grow older, sir. We all grow up. I am proud though, as I'm sure your father is, at the man you've become."  
  
"Some times I wonder."  
  
"Don't you worry, sir. I'm sure he smiles down on you with fondness. Even if you've yet to provide him a grandson."  
  
Thomas smiled slightly and ducked his head at the familiar jibe.  
  
"It'll be a good number of years before I'm ready for that, I think."  
  
"Children are good for the soul, I think. They keep a man young. Remind him that there is still a bit of innocence in this world of ours."  
  
Choosing to divert the topic from his own life for a moment, Thomas opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a stamp-laden envelope.  
  
"Speaking of which, I took the liberty of collecting the mail this afternoon. I believe this is for you."  
  
With a raised eyebrow, Winifred accepted the letter from Thomas and opened it. As he read the first lines, the old man's eyes lit up and a broad grin crossed his face, ordinarily so immutable as to be mistaken for stone.  
  
"I presume it's from either Alfred or Wilfred, from your reaction."  
  
"Indeed, sir. Alfred writes me from London. He cannot quite say what he has been about of late, some big hush-hush, supposedly. It seems he's a bit worried by events on the mainland. Some upstart in Germany making a mess of things. His job at the ministry goes well, though, and he assures me that he will be home to visit soon."  
  
The unspoken words that passed between the two men were plain enough to Thomas. The look on Winifred's face, one of deep, abiding concern. A fear that something would happen to his boy. Even as an old man, whose sons were long since grown, he felt they were somehow his responsibility. Perhaps, Thomas thought to himself, this is why my sense of duty to Gotham is so keen. We all have that ability within us, to care so intensely that the thought of harm coming to that which we love is unbearable.  
  
Love, he thought. So much power in such a simple sounding word. He turned back to the manservant, still drinking in his son's words.  
  
"I think that'll be all tonight, Winifred. You should turn in. Say hello to Margaret for me."  
  
The old man nodded and shuffled away, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts of love.  
  
  
  
Johhny ran through the alley alone, his threadbare coat wrapped around him tightly in an attempt to ward off the cold. He had to find her, he had to. She was his responsibility, he was supposed to take care of her.  
  
Johnny's scream was muffled against the glove that clamped around his mouth, catching in mid-stride.  
  
"Well, well. The other one. How good of you to save me the trouble of coming looking for you. I do so appreciate it."  
  
Johnny went limp as the chloroform-soaked rag was placed to his face. His assailant hummed softly as he tossed the small boy into the back of his car and drove off, leaving only Johnny's scarf in the alley. 


	9. Chapter 7

Hero's Blood  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Thomas was at work when the call came in. He'd only recently opened his practice, thinking that the winter months would be a good time, given the decrease in crime.  
  
"Dr. Wayne, there's a call for you." His assistant said through the office door.  
  
"I'll take it on my office extension, Emily, thank you."  
  
He picked up the receiver and cradled it on his shoulder as he continued his paperwork.  
  
"This is Dr. Thomas Wayne."  
  
"Doctor Wayne. this is Gertrude Ellingson, do you remember me?"  
  
"Of course I do, Ms. Ellingson. I spoke with you when I left Joan and Johnny Napier in your care at the Mercy Street Children's Home. How are they, by the way?"  
  
"That's why I'm calling, sir. you see, we'd been meaning to call you sooner, given your interest in the children, but we had assumed that she had just run away of her own free will. it happens so often."  
  
Thomas stopped what he was doing and his voice changed its timbre oh- so-slightly, becoming something a bit closer to the harsh voice of the Gray Ghost.  
  
"What's happened, tell me."  
  
"Little Joan just wasn't happy, we thought. We sent word to the police, thinking they might be able to find her, but they never did. But then when Johnny went missing too."  
  
She related to him how Joan and Johnny Napier had both gone missing in the last week, and how the police didn't seem to be able to do anything, or that they seemed to have more important things to worry about than two runaway children. She thought that maybe he'd be able to influence the police to try harder. They were such small children, she said, verging on tears.  
  
"I'll do whatever is in my power, Ms. Ellingson, I assure you. Please, call me if anything else happens."  
  
He snatched his overcoat from the coat rack as he strode from the office, offhandedly informing Emily that any more appointments would have to be rescheduled. His car was already waiting for him at the curb as he left the building, Winifred at the wheel.  
  
"Police headquarters, please, Winifred. And as quickly as you can."  
  
The towering architecture of Gotham was evidenced, better than most places, in Gotham's Police headquarters, a fifty-story edifice that bespoke man's technical brilliance and the all-too-apparent self-aggrandizing image that the department had bestowed upon itself. He was barely inside before meeting with the first signs of incompetence and resistance.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but something like this really should go through social services."  
  
"Officer, I would ask you to understand the seriousness of this. There are two small children lost, perhaps abducted, on these streets right now. The temperature outside is approximately five degrees below zero, and neither of them is older than ten. What more do you need to know?"  
  
"Well, you could start with why I should care."  
  
The quiet fury boiled within Thomas Wayne as he glared at the smug face of the officer. He kept it in check, however, as he leaned over the desk and growled.  
  
"Some day, a man like you will get what is due him." The officer's face paled a bit at the intensity in Thomas' eyes. "You had better hope I am able to find those children." Turning, he stalked away, his fury eased only slightly by the knowledge that he had slipped a powerful laxative into the officer's coffee. The man would not be having a pleasant day. Clearly, though the police were going to be of no help. Gotham's organized crime might be in hiding for the winter, but The Gray Ghost was going to have his work cut out for him anyway.  
  
That night, he stood in the alleyway that passed behind the Gotham Garden Theater, dressed in his "working" clothes. Somewhere, he knew, there must be a clue. A box office clerk had seen a boy matching Johnny's description dart into this alley, and that was the last trace of the boy that he had been able to locate. Few eyes besides those of a trained physician would have noticed the speck of red near a trashcan that stood near the backstage door. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he slipped closer and retrieved the scarf. A quick sniff revealed that he had, indeed met with foul play. It didn't take a doctor to recognize the telltale odor of chloroform. That still gave him no clues to whom had taken the boy. Casting his gaze around, his eyes settled on a small piece of rubber in the center of the alley. He picked it up with a pair of tweezers and tucked it into his cloak for examination. After a few more minutes, he realized that there was little else for him to find, so he climbed behind the wheel of The Car and drove off.  
  
Back in the warehouse, Thomas put the rubber under a microscope and smiled a bit. It was what he'd hoped for, his first lead. This particular tire had been made using a special process that had only just recently been patented by a company operating right in Gotham. He recognized it because he had ordered the Car's tires from that same manufacturer. The tires were designed to have an unusually high level of traction at high speeds, which let the car using them corner exceptionally well, and reduced the chances of "peeling out", which drew notice from anyone nearby. He used them for the same reasons he guessed the driver of this car had. Their superb traction and silence lent themselves to a quick and quiet getaway, a necessity for a vigilante.  
  
"Or someone wanting to get away with a small child without being noticed."  
  
The tires were expensive, and there were few people who knew about them as yet, since the firm had decided to limit themselves to a small clientele. That meant two things. One, that there would be a record of who had purchased these tires and, two, that whoever had purchased them had access to funds.  
  
"It looks like the bears are out of hibernation. Time to go hunting." 


	10. Chapter 8

Hero's Blood Chapter Eight  
  
The first thing that Johnny Napier noticed as he woke was the warmth on his nose. For so long, all he'd been able to remember was cold. Ever since his father died, he'd been cold. In the old theatre with his sister, in the orphanage where he slept in a cold bed and on the streets as he wandered, looking for her. Given all of this, it came as quite a surprise to the thin little boy when he awoke to find himself warmer than he had been in a good long while.  
  
"Ah, good, you're awake."  
  
Johnny slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was sitting in a large, comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire. His battered, old shoes were resting on the hearth and a man was standing just off to the side of the fireplace.  
  
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever, kid."  
  
Vincent Falcone was not a tall man, but he looked like a giant to Johnny. He had only seen him once before. The night his father had died.  
  
"You're a very important boy Johnny. We've been trying to find you for a long time. I wish you hadn't run off that night, Johnny." There was an icy undertone to Falcone's voice that sent shivers down Johnny's spine.  
  
Despite the fire, Johnny was doing his level best to keep from trembling in front of this man. He could feel the fear boiling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to rise up and consume him if he gave it half a chance.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir."  
  
Falcone suddenly turned jovial again, throwing his hands into the air and landing on of them on Johnny's shoulder, giving it an affectionate rub.  
  
"Ah, don't worry about it, kid. There's nothing to worry about."  
  
He knelt at Johnny's feet and looked into the boy's eyes, his hand still firmly on Johnny's shoulder.  
  
"I need you to tell me something though, Johnny."  
  
As he crouched in front of Johnny, Facone's face turned to cold stone and his eyes went dark, lifeless, and Johnny nearly screamed.  
  
"What do you remember from the night your daddy died?"  
  
  
  
Thomas stood, waiting, in the front office of Masterson Automotive Concepts, the designers of the specialized tires that he employed on his own car, and that he'd found traces of at the crime scene where Johnny had been abducted. There were some doors that were better opened by Thomas Wayne, M.D. than by the Gray Ghost. A small, thin man came through the doors and shook Thomas' hand, the monogram on his kerchief indicated that he was Masterson, the owner.  
  
"What can we do for you this afternoon, Dr. Wayne?"  
  
Thomas gave the man a winning grin and his warmest handshake.  
  
"Well, Mr. Masterson, a few weeks ago I heard of a great new kind of tire that you men were producing here, and I was intrigued. I've been considering funding a new hospital on the East Side, and I want it to be the best, which means the best of everything."  
  
"Well, Mr. Wayne, I assure you that our tires fit that bill, but I fail to see the connection." The befuddled look on Masterson's face brought a smile to Thomas' lips.  
  
"The ambulances, sir, the ambulances. If there's one thing I've seen far too much, it is men who could have been saved if they'd made it to the emergency room just minutes earlier. Now, if these tires are all you say they are, they might be able to help me cut down on transit time in the city."  
  
Masterson nodded, the information registering in his brain. Thomas could tell that he would do well. He could just imagine the schemes going through the small man's mind. He probably saw himself soon supplying all of Gotham's Hospitals with his new tires, and even moving on to other, larger ventures. All of this passed through the razor-keen brain of Thomas Wayne in the second before Masterson responded.  
  
"I couldn't have thought of a nobler use myself, Mr. Wayne. So, shall we draw up an order form for you?"  
  
"Well, here's the rub, Masterson. If I'm to go through with this, it will be to the utmost, which would mean a hefty order. Before I commit funds like that, I'd like to be able to talk to some people who've used these tires, see how they've performed over the long run, things like that."  
  
"What'd you have in mind?"  
  
"Why don't you and I sit down over your client records and see if I can't spot out a few that might be what I need?"  
  
Some hours later, Thomas emerged into the chilly night air outside the warehouse, a folder tucked under his arm and a grim look on his face. Winifred was waiting, bundled in a heavy coat and mittens.  
  
"A successful meeting, sir?"  
  
"Quite, Winifred. Why don't you go home, old friend? I've still a bit more business to attend to here in the city."  
  
"If you wish, sir. Shall I secure the manor?"  
  
"Please do. Thank you, and I'll see you in the morning."  
  
"Good evening, sir."  
  
Winifred drove off in the car as Thomas watched him go. It was a wonder he'd been able to keep his night-time activities secret from the wise Englishman these many months, but he knew that he couldn't risk drawing anyone else into his crusade. Armed with new information, he slipped quietly into the Maroni Brothers' warehouse. Along one wall was a map of the city with various photographs and charts attached; all his information about Vincent Falcone's growing empire. Thomas sat down at the long table in front of the wall, took a black leather-bound book from a drawer, and began writing.  
  
"Case file entry number twelve. Masterson's client records show only two other purchasers of the particular tire model that matches the sample from the alley. One is the Gotham Tribune, which has been refitting their delivery vans for winter weather, and the other is a company called Maltese Imports."  
  
Thomas laid the pen down and thought for a moment. Something was tickling the back of his brain, some little piece of trivia that would make this mystery easy to unravel. Suddenly it clicked in his head. He snatched an old issue of Black Mask magazine from his shelf and pulled it open. He occasionally read these detective pulp stories to glean ideas on how he could better cultivate the growing urban legend surrounding the Gray Ghost, but he never thought to consult them for clues. Then, as if by magic, it was there before him.  
  
"The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course."  
  
Maltese Imports. The Maltese Falcon. Vincent Falcone had a sense of humor.  
  
"You won't be laughing after tonight, Falcone."  
  
  
  
"Come on, Johnny. All I need to know is what you saw, then it's all over and we're done with you."  
  
Falcone had his hands fixed on Johnny's shoulders and his grip slowly tightened when the boy didn't respond.  
  
"I dunno nuthin, sir. Promise."  
  
"Johnny, Johnny. I wish I could believe you, but I can't. And you just made a mistake m'boy." He came around the chair to face Johnny.  
  
"You lied. You shouldn't have lied, boy."  
  
"Perhaps he's been spending too much time with you, Falcone."  
  
Vincent spun to face the penthouse window. There, against the backdrop of Gotham's lights was a shadow of a big man in a cloak.  
  
"Who in the hell are you?"  
  
No answer was offered as the shadowy figure leapt from its perch and collided with Falcone. His guards were already unconscious, several rooms away as the beefy Italian man swung a large fist at the man who'd dared interfere. The lucky blow caught the Gray Ghost in the ribs, momentarily stunning him, but for just long enough that Falcone delivered another blow, this time to the head, bringing the vigilante to his knees.  
  
"I know who you are, you punk! You're that damned 'ghost' all my boys've been yammering on about. Well, tonight you become a real ghost."  
  
He pulled a revolver from his belt and leveled it at the head of the Gray Ghost.  
  
"Say goodnight, heraaaah!!"  
  
The gun clattered to the floor as Falcone clutched his hand in pain. A great, bloody gash ran along the top of Falcone's hand, and Johnny Napier held an antique sword in his hands, a defiant look on his face.  
  
The boy's brave move gave the Ghost enough time to get to his feet, where he squared off against Falcone.  
  
"You got in one lucky punch, Falcone. Care to try for another?"  
  
Just then, a slew of thugs burst through the double doors to the room. In the momentary confusion, the Gray Ghost scooped up Johnny and sent the boy shimmying up toward the open window. He dropped a magnesium flare and hurried off himself.  
  
"Another time, Falcone!"  
  
And with that, he was gone.  
  
ONE WEEK LATER  
  
"I assure you, Mr. Wayne, this is the best care facility in the state. The boy will receive nothing but the best."  
  
Thomas allowed himself a small smile as he shook hands with the head of the Black's School for Boys. Johnny was sitting alone at the edge of the playground, watching the other boys play. Thomas knelt next to him.  
  
"How are you, Johnny?"  
  
"All right I guess."  
  
"I think that you're going to like it here. They seem like a good bunch of boys."  
  
"Sure. Swell."  
  
"I have to be going, but I'll be by to check on you soon." He found a ball on the ground and handed it to the boy. "Here. Those boys over there look like they just dropped this. Why don't you go see if they'll let you join them."  
  
Johnny took the ball and walked over to the group of boys.  
  
"Hey, thanks, small fry. What's your name, anyway?"  
  
"Johnny."  
  
"Ah, we already got a Johnny here. We'll call ya Jack, how 'bout that?"  
  
Somehow it seemed to work for Johnny, who promptly smiled.  
  
"I like Jack. So can I play?"  
  
Thomas saw the conversation and smiled as he walked away. Falcone would still have to be dealt with, but little "Jack" was safe now. There would be other nights for Falcone, for as he watched the young boys play, he felt himself take on a renewed vigor. It was for them that he fought, it was them that men had bled and died. And so he would go on. The night would no longer belong to evil men, but to the just. The night would belong to the Gray Ghost. 


End file.
